THE BALL IN BRUTON STREET.
Sir Harry vacillated, Lady Elizabeth doubted, and Cousin George
was allowed to come to the ball. At this time, in the common
understanding of such phrase, Emily Hotspur was heart-whole in regard
to her cousin. Had she been made to know that he had gone away for
ever,--been banished to some antipodes from which he never could
return,--there would have been no lasting sorrow on her part, though
there might have been some feeling which would have given her an ache
for the moment. She had thought about him, as girls will think of men
as to whom they own to themselves that it is possible that they may
be in love with them some day;--and she liked him much. She also
liked Lord Alfred, but the liking had been altogether of a different
kind. In regard to Lord Alfred she had been quite sure, from the
first days of her intercourse with him, that she could never be in
love with him. He was to her no more than old Mr. Crutchley or young
Mr. Latheby,--a man, and a good sort of man, but no more than a man.
To worship Lord Alfred must be impossible to her. She had already
conceived that it would be quite possible for her to worship her
Cousin George in the teeth of all the hard things that she had heard
of him. The reader may be sure that such a thought had passed through
her mind when she asked her mother whether Cousin George was to be
accepted as a black sheep or a white one?
The ball was a very grand affair, and Emily Hotspur was a very great
lady. It had come to be understood that the successful suitor for her
hand would be the future lord of Humblethwaite, and the power with
which she was thus vested gave her a prestige and standing which can
hardly be attained by mere wit and beauty, even when most perfectly
combined. It was not that all who worshipped, either at a distance
or with passing homage, knew the fact of the heiress-ship, or had
ever heard of the £20,000 a year; but, given the status, and the
worshippers will come. The word had gone forth in some mysterious
way, and it was acknowledged that Emily Hotspur was a great young
lady. Other young ladies, who were not great, allowed themselves to
be postponed to her almost without jealousy, and young gentlemen
without pretensions regarded her as one to whom they did not dare
to ask to be introduced. Emily saw it all, and partly liked it, and
partly despised it. But, even when despising it, she took advantage
of it. The young gentlemen without pretensions were no more to her
than the chairs and tables; and the young ladies who submitted to her
and adored her,--were allowed to be submissive, and to adore. But of
this she was quite sure,--that her Cousin George must some day be the
head of her own family. He was a man whom she was bound to treat with
attentive regard, if they who had the custody of her chose to place
her in his company at all.
At this ball there were some very distinguished people
indeed,--persons whom it would hardly be improper to call
illustrious. There were two royal duchesses, one of whom was English,
and no less than three princes. The Russian and French ambassadors
were both there. There was the editor of the most influential
newspaper of the day,--for a few minutes only; and the Prime Minister
passed through the room in the course of the evening. Dukes and
duchesses below the royal degree were common; and as for earls and
countesses, and their daughters, they formed the ruck of the crowd.
The Poet-laureate didn't come indeed, but was expected; and three
Chinese mandarins of the first quality entered the room at eleven,
and did not leave till one. Poor Lady Elizabeth suffered a great deal
with those mandarins. From all this it will be seen that the ball was
quite a success.
George Hotspur dined that day with Lord and Lady Altringham, and went
with them to the ball in the evening. Lord Altringham, though his
manner was airy and almost indifferent, was in truth most anxious
that his friend should be put upon his feet by the marriage; and the
Countess was so keen about it, that there was nothing in the way of
innocent intrigue which she would not have done to accomplish it. She
knew that George Hotspur was a rake, was a gambler, was in debt, was
hampered by other difficulties, and all the rest of it; but she liked
the man, and was therefore willing to believe that a rich marriage
would put it all right. Emily Hotspur was nothing to her, nor was Sir
Harry; but George had often made her own house pleasant to her, and
therefore, to her thinking, deserved a wife with £20,000 a year. And
then, if there might have been scruples under other circumstances,
that fact of the baronetcy overcame them. It could not be wrong
in one placed as was Lady Altringham to assist in preventing any
separation of the title and the property. Of course George might
probably squander all that he could squander; but that might be made
right by settlements and entails. Lady Altringham was much more
energetic than her husband, and had made out quite a plan of the
manner in which George should proceed. She discussed the matter with
him at great length. The one difficulty she was, indeed, obliged to
slur over; but even that was not altogether omitted in her scheme.
"Whatever incumbrances there may be, free yourself from them at
once," she had advised.
"That is so very easy to say, Lady Altringham, but so difficult to
do."
"As to debts, of course they can't be paid without money. Sir Harry
will find it worth his while to settle any debts. But if there is
anything else, stop it at once." Of course there was something else,
and of course Lady Altringham knew what that something else was. She
demanded, in accordance with her scheme, that George should lose no
time. This was in May. It was known that Sir Harry intended to leave
town early in June. "Of course you will take him at his word, and go
to Humblethwaite when you leave us," she had said.
"No time has been named."
"Then you can name your own without difficulty. You will write from
Castle Corry and say you are coming. That is, if it's not all settled
by that time. Of course, it cannot be done in a minute, because
Sir Harry must consent; but I should begin at once,--only, Captain
Hotspur, leave nothing for them to find out afterwards. What is past
they will forgive." Such had been Lady Altringham's advice, and no
doubt she understood the matter which she had been discussing.
When George Hotspur entered the room, his cousin was dancing with a
prince. He could see her as he stood speaking a few words to Lady
Elizabeth. And in talking to Lady Elizabeth he did not talk as a
stranger would, or a common guest. He had quite understood all that
he might gain by assuming the intimacy of cousinhood, and he had
assumed it. Lady Elizabeth was less weary than before when he stood
by her, and accepted from his hand some little trifle of help, which
was agreeable to her. And he showed himself in no hurry, and told her
some little story that pleased her. What a pity it was that Cousin
George should be a scamp, she thought, as he went on to greet Sir
Harry.
And with Sir Harry he remained a minute or two. On such an occasion
as this Sir Harry was all smiles, and quite willing to hear a
little town gossip. "Come with the Altringhams, have you? I'm told
Altringham has just sold all his horses. What's the meaning of that?"
"The old story, Sir Harry. He has weeded his stable, and got the
buyers to think that they were getting the cream. There isn't a man
in England knows better what he's about than Altringham."
Sir Harry smiled his sweetest, and answered with some good-humoured
remark, but he said in his heart that "birds of a feather flock
together," and that his cousin was--not a man of honour.
There are some things that no rogue can do. He can understand what it
is to condemn roguery, to avoid it, to dislike it, to disbelieve in
it;--but he cannot understand what it is to hate it. Cousin George
had probably exaggerated the transaction of which he had spoken, but
he had little thought that in doing so he had helped to imbue Sir
Harry with a true idea of his own character.
George passed on, and saw his cousin, who was now standing up with a
foreign ambassador. He just spoke to her as he passed her, calling
her by her Christian name as he did so. She gave him her hand ever so
graciously; and he, when he had gone on, returned and asked her to
name a dance.
"But I don't think I've one left that I mean to dance," she said.
"Then give me one that you don't mean to dance," he answered. And of
course she gave it to him.
It was an hour afterwards that he came to claim her promise, and she
put her arm through his and stood up with him. There was no talk then
of her not dancing, and she went whirling round the room with him in
great bliss. Cousin George waltzed well. All such men do. It is a
part of their stock-in-trade. On this evening Emily Hotspur thought
that he waltzed better than any one else, and told him so. "Another
turn? Of course I will with you, because you know what you're about."
"I'd blush if I'd time," said he.
"A great many gentlemen ought to blush, I know. That prince, whose
name I always forget, and you, are the only men in the room who dance
well, according to my ideas."
Then off they went again, and Emily was very happy. He could at least
dance well, and there could be no reason why she should not enjoy his
dancing well since he had been considered to be white enough to be
asked to the ball.
But with George there was present at every turn and twist of the
dance an idea that he was there for other work than that. He was
tracking a head of game after which there would be many hunters. He
had his advantages, and so would they have theirs. One of his was
this,--that he had her there with him now, and he must use it. She
would not fall into his mouth merely by being whirled round the room
pleasantly. At last she was still, and consented to take a walk with
him out of the room, somewhere out amidst the crowd, on the staircase
if possible, so as to get a breath of fresh air. Of course he soon
had her jammed into a corner out of which there was no immediate mode
of escape.
"We shall never get away again," she said, laughing. Had she wanted
to get away her tone and manner would have been very different.
"I wonder whether you feel yourself to be the same sort of person
here that you are at Humblethwaite," he said.
"Exactly the same."
"To me you seem to be so different."
"In what way?"
"I don't think you are half so nice."
"How very unkind!"
Of course she was flattered. Of all flattery praise is the coarsest
and least efficacious. When you would flatter a man, talk to him
about himself, and criticise him, pulling him to pieces by comparison
of some small present fault with his past conduct;--and the rule
holds the same with a woman. To tell her that she looks well is
feeble work; but complain to her wofully that there is something
wanting at the present moment, something lacking from the usual high
standard, some temporary loss of beauty, and your solicitude will
prevail with her.
"And in what am I not nice? I am sure I'm trying to be as nice as I
know how."
"Down at Humblethwaite you are simply yourself,--Emily Hotspur."
"And what am I here?"
"That formidable thing,--a success. Don't you feel yourself that you
are lifted a little off your legs?"
"Not a bit;--not an inch. Why should I?"
"I fail to make you understand quite what I mean. Don't you feel that
with all these princes and potentates you are forced to be something
else than your natural self? Don't you know that you have to put on a
special manner, and to talk in a special way? Does not the champagne
fly to your head, more or less?"
"Of course, the princes and potentates are not the same as old Mrs.
Crutchley, if you mean that."
"I am not blaming you, you know, only I cannot help being very
anxious; and I found you so perfect at Humblethwaite that I cannot
say that I like any change. You know I am to come to Humblethwaite
again?"
"Of course you are."
"You go down next month, I believe?"
"Papa talks of going to Scarrowby for a few weeks. He always does
every year, and it is so dull. Did you ever see Scarrowby?"
"Never."
"You ought to come there some day. You know one branch of the
Hotspurs did live there for ever so long."
"Is it a good house?"
"Very bad indeed; but there are enormous woods, and the country is
very wild, and everything is at sixes and sevens. However, of course
you would not come, because it is in the middle of your London
season. There would be ever so many things to keep you. You are a man
who, I suppose, never was out of London in June in your life, unless
some race meeting was going on."
"Do you really take me for such as that, Emily?"
"Yes, I do. That is what they tell me you are. Is it not true? Don't
you go to races?"
"I should be quite willing to undertake never to put my foot on a
racecourse again this minute. I will do so now if you will only ask
it of me."
She paused a moment, half thinking that she would ask it, but at last
she determined against it.
"No," she said; "if you think it proper to stay away, you can do so
without my asking it. I have no right to make such a request. If you
think races are bad, why don't you stay away of your own accord?"
"They are bad," he said.
"Then why do you go to them?"
"They are bad, and I do go to them. They are very bad, and I go
to them very often. But I will stay away and never put my foot on
another racecourse if you, my cousin, will ask me."
"That is nonsense."
"Try me. It shall not be nonsense. If you care enough about me to
wish to save me from what is evil, you can do it. I care enough about
you to give up the pursuit at your bidding."
As he said this he looked down into her eyes, and she knew that the
full weight of his gaze was upon her. She knew that his words and his
looks together were intended to impress her with some feeling of his
love for her. She knew at the moment, too, that they gratified her.
And she remembered also in the same moment that her Cousin George was
a black sheep.
"If you cannot refrain from what is bad without my asking you," she
said, "your refraining will do no good."
He was making her some answer, when she insisted on being taken away.
"I must get into the dancing-room; I must indeed, George. I have
already thrown over some poor wretch. No, not yet, I see, however. I
was not engaged for the quadrille; but I must go back and look after
the people."
He led her back through the crowd; and as he did so he perceived that
Sir Harry's eyes were fixed upon him. He did not much care for that.
If he could carry his Cousin Emily, he thought that he might carry
the Baronet also.
He could not get any special word with her again that night. He asked
her for another dance, but she would not grant it to him. "You forget
the princes and potentates to whom I have to attend," she said to
him, quoting his own words.
He did not blame her, even to himself, judging by the importance
which he attached to every word of private conversation which he
could have with her, that she found it to be equally important.
It was something gained that she should know that he was thinking
of her. He could not be to her now like any cousin, or any other
man, with whom she might dance three or four times without meaning
anything. As he was aware of it, so must she be; and he was glad that
she should feel that it was so.
"Emily tells me that you are going to Scarrowby next month," he said
afterwards to Sir Harry.
Sir Harry frowned, and answered him very shortly, "Yes, we shall go
there in June."
"Is it a large place?"
"Large? How do you mean? It is a good property."
"But the house?"
"The house is quite large enough for us," said Sir Harry; "but we do
not have company there."
This was said in a very cold tone, and there was nothing more to
be added. George, to do him justice, had not been fishing for an
invitation to Scarrowby. He had simply been making conversation with
the Baronet. It would not have suited him to go to Scarrowby, because
by doing so he would have lost the power of renewing his visit to
Humblethwaite. But Sir Harry in this interview had been so very
ungracious,--and as George knew very well, because of the scene in
the corner,--that there might be a doubt whether he would ever get to
Humblethwaite at all. If he failed, however, it should not be for the
want of audacity on his own part.
But, in truth, Sir Harry's blackness was still the result of
vacillation. Though he would fain redeem this prodigal, if it were
possible, and give him everything that was to be given; yet, when he
saw the prodigal attempting to help himself to the good things, his
wrath was aroused. George Hotspur, as he betook himself from Bruton
Street to such other amusements as were at his command, meditated
much over his position. He thought he could give up the racecourses;
but he was sure that he could at any rate say that he would give them
up.